


When the Moon Hits Your Eye

by Ysabetwordsmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Community: asexual_fandom, John is utterly clueless, M/M, Our Song, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Sherlock needs attention, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysabetwordsmith/pseuds/Ysabetwordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After concluding a case, Sherlock and John stop at Angelo's restaurant for a bite to eat.  Only John has forgotten the date, and that's a bit awkward ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Moon Hits Your Eye

**Author's Note:**

> This poem was originally written and posted as part of the 2012 Asexy Valentines Fest on the Dreamwidth community asexual_fandom.

After the murderer had been  
chased across six blocks of rooftops,  
tackled into a snowdrift behind a skip,  
and remanded into the hands of Scotland Yard,

Sherlock finally began to wind down  
which was a good thing  
since neither of them had slept for two nights  
(or was it three? John had lost count)  
and when John's stomach growled,  
Sherlock agreed that they might stop for a bite to eat.

So they walked through the fallen snow,  
the moon huge as a pizza overhead  
and turning the streets of London to sugar and quicksilver,  
until they came to Angelo's restaurant.

John had lost track of the date.  
He regretted this fact as soon as the door opened.  
There was the beaming Italian chef  
wearing a _pink apron_ covered with _red and white hearts,_  
ushering them toward a table for two.  
John groaned and buried his face in his hands  
as a white candle and a pink rosebud appeared on the table.

Here they went again.  
There was just no stopping Angelo,  
though John was determined to try.

Two breadsticks in a red basket  
with fresh pesto in a bowl shaped like a flower.  
A dainty little salad and a palm-sized piece of lasagna  
for Sherlock -- thank _God_ that Angelo was finally  
learning what the man might deign to eat --  
while John's pasta came topped with  
a tomato-sauce heart outlined in steamed shrimp.  
Cannoli for dessert, long and thick  
and dripping cream as white as a Freudian slip.

Then the violin player arrived  
and played "That's Amore"  
until John wanted to slide under the table  
or, preferably, strangle Angelo.

But Sherlock had eaten all of his salad,  
half the lasagna, stolen _three_ of John's shrimp,  
licked cannoli cream off of an impossibly long finger,  
and unbuttoned his pants as if he'd gorged on Christmas goose.  
He hadn't even eviscerated the violinist's performance.  
A faint smile played across his thin lips,  
and John just couldn't bring himself  
to ruin Sherlock's good mood.

Clearly John would have to deal with this in private.

"Excuse me," he said as he got up,  
hoping that Sherlock would humor him  
and believe the implied fiction  
that John was just visiting the men's room.

Instead, John ducked into the kitchen,  
snagged Angelo by the elbow,  
and hustled him into the pantry.

"This has got to stop, Angelo,"  
John said firmly.  
"I appreciate that you want to help Sherlock,  
but trying to set us up is _not helping._  
You need to cut it out with all this romantic crap.  
I date women, and Sherlock --"

\-- was not John's story to tell,  
but John had to say _something,_  
"-- is married to his work."

"I know," said Angelo.  
"You try to get in his pants,  
I break-a you arms like I did  
the last wise guy who tried it."

"... what?" John said faintly.

"Sherlock, he _likes_ you,"  
Angelo explained patiently.  
"He never likes anybody before,  
but you come limping in here that first night  
and you look at him like he hung the moon,  
and that man can't take his ears off you  
he loves to hear you talk so much."

"Okay," John said,  
wondering when his train of thought  
had left the station without him.

"But you gotta understand, John --  
he needs _attention."_  
Angelo clasped his shoulders  
and gave him a friendly shake  
that rattled John's teeth gently together.  
"You gotta treat him like a gentleman,  
make a fuss over him,  
show him how much you care.  
Sherlock may not want sex,  
but _romance_ \-- ah!"

"Romance," John echoed.  
"Gentleman."

Angelo propelled him out of the pantry,  
through the kitchen, and tossed him out  
with a final word of advice:  
"Now you get out there, John,  
and put that nice flower in his buttonhole,  
and walk him home."

So John returned to the table  
trying to pretend that things had gone  
at least vaguely according to plan.  
Sherlock smirked at him,  
clearly deducing that something had gone  
off the script as usual.

But he stopped smirking  
when John carefully shortened the stem  
and trimmed the thorns off the rose,  
then tucked it into Sherlock's buttonhole.

Sherlock gave John a puzzled look,  
and John's heart fluttered because  
 _nothing_ ever puzzled Sherlock  
but maybe Angelo was right after all.  
John held out his elbow,  
offering himself as escort.

Sherlock's smile was dazzling in the candlelight.

They walked to the door  
with Sherlock's hand in John's elbow.  
"My treat," John murmured  
when Sherlock reached for his pocket,  
because any time they didn't _run_ out of here  
Sherlock and Angelo fought over the bill --  
except that Sherlock _let_ John take out his wallet  
and Angelo _let_ John pay the bill  
and neither of them said a word about it.

Then John and Sherlock stepped outside.  
It was snowing again, very lightly,  
a drift of diamond dust sifting down from the sky  
where the moon shone whole and brilliant  
through a gap in the clouds.

As they walked homeward, John realized  
that Sherlock was humming "That's Amore,"  
and so was he.


End file.
